Packing a house where you’ve lived for more than 20 years is a bit like an archeological dig into your own life. It can stir up a lot of buried thoughts and feelings.
Looking at the past version of yourself can sometimes tell you something about the present.
I moved last week, so I’ve spent a lot of time lately going through drawers and boxes, trying to figure out what to save and what to throw away. Each layer of things from the past seemed to represent something different.
When it comes to paper, I’m a bit of a packrat. I keep my notes, records, random ideas, cards, letters and dozens of other types of things too difficult to categorize. And with each bit of paper or file or box, there’s a story that comes with it.
I dug up many relics of the days when I was in business for myself, back when I owned a couple of small publications and a typesetting company. There were also plenty of things related to my community newspaper days working for other companies in a series of small cities. There were detailed profit-and-loss statements from newspapers 25 years ago, along with lists of story ideas and design concepts for some of the newspapers. There were faded awards and paste-up sheets and even a pica stick. (Hardly anybody even knows what a pica stick is anymore.)
There were many bits and pieces related to romantic relationships. There were many references to my ex-wife and many pieces of paper with her handwriting and record-keeping. At various points in the piles as I dug deeper, there were records and notes about every halfway serious — and many casual — romantic relationship I’ve had over the last 15 years.
I found blueprints that my ex-wife and I had ordered many years ago for a house we planned to build. I’d completely forgotten about that.
There were boxes and boxes of political material that I had written and designed for candidates over a couple of decades. I was proud of some of the pieces and I felt cynical about others. Some of the candidates were people who went to prison. Others are political nobodies now. There were even samples of one piece that I did overnight for a sitting governor’s re-election campaign about 15 years ago that I’m ashamed of, because I feel as though it was ultimately dishonest. (I didn’t mind the $10,000 it made for me in 24 hours, though.)
There were folders and boxes full of work related to ministry-related. There was a mockup of a publication about prayer. There was information related to my days as a volunteer for Prison Fellowship. There were extensive notes about a ministry that my ex and I once talked about starting.
I found various notebooks full of creative ideas and half-finished outlines — for movies, books and more. Among them were detailed notes that showed the transition of my short film — “We’re the Government — and You’re Not” — from a rough idea to a finished product a decade ago. There were even the original videotapes from the shooting of my short.
All of these relics I dug up had their own stories and triggered their own emotions. If an outsider had viewed all of these things, he might have wondered if they were from half a dozen different people, because there didn’t seem to be any common thread, but they were all mine. So who was I back then? Was I just trying out different personas along the way?
Was I a businessman who wanted to make money and build companies? Was I a dedicated journalist who was passionate about producing a beautiful and well-written newspaper? Was I the man whose heart ached to find the right woman to love him and have children above all else? Was I the one who wanted to change the world in idealistic ways, such as by helping men in prison learn how to live their lives after they got out? Was I the starry-eyed wannabe filmmaker who dreamed of entertaining others with movies and books that would excite me?
Who was that person back then? And how did I become whoever I am today?
But as I stood back and looked at the various bits of the past that I was putting into boxes, an odd feeling emerged. I felt as though the person I was looking at in the relics wasn’t some stranger who I’d outgrown many years ago. For all the faults and immaturity that I sometimes saw in the layers of relics — and for all the lack of focus — I recognized that I was still the same person I had always been.
It’s usually my impression that I’m a much different person now than I was 10 years ago — or 20 years ago or even more — but as I review those mementos of the past, there’s an odd sense of continuity.
I’m still exactly the same person.
I’m wiser. I understand much more. I can point to specific things I’ve learned about myself and explain specific ways in which I’ve grown (and I can point to ways in which I haven’t grown enough). But I’m still the same person I’ve been since I was a child — for good or bad. The core of me was the same.
That feels oddly reassuring.
I can still build whatever I want to build financially or in business, because I have that entrepreneurial spark in me. I can still create art and beauty, because I’m an artist — whether I like it or not. I can still love and make it a priority to share love and understanding with a wife and children. I can still be the idealistic person who works to change the world — or at least my little part of it — by sharing the values and knowledge that matter to me.
I’m still all of those. For good or bad, I haven’t changed. I’ve grown. I’ve learned. I’ve discarded some parts of me. I still have a lot to learn. But I’m still all those people I see in my past.
The future can still be whatever I want it to be.
If I were the archeologist or paleontologist evaluating what I found over the last week or so, I’d say, “This is an interesting combination of interests and desires. I wonder what the rest of this guy’s story is.”
The difference is that I can write my own ending to the story. The past isn’t deterministic. The failures and defeats I’ve experienced don’t mean that anything is over. It just means we’re ready for the third act.
I don’t know how my story is going to end, but looking at the past makes me certain that the ending will be explosive and unpredictable. It’s time to write, direct and act an amazing third act.
It’s my own choice whether that’s a tragedy or a triumph.
The child in me never learned to feel at home as part of a group
FRIDAY FUNNIES
Objective reality has now become offensive in dysfunctional culture